That Face
by Reality Killed Us
Summary: "The face, with hallowed cheekbones and dynamic eyes and that small mole that is nestled almost by her hairline; a source of pure beauty and something artists have struggled to do justice for as long as man has loved. He could never forget it. Yet it seems that he has. From somewhere." A little fluff from my sleep deprived brain.


_A little one shot because I'm still not over daylight savings time so I can't fall asleep and I'm in a romantic mood._

**Disclaimer: disclaimed**

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He doesn't tell anybody this, but he never forgets a face.

It's like a photographic memory really. Just, instead of pages of text swimming in his brain that could help him pass grade school, he sees the faces of everybody he's ever met.

It helps him later, when he's at book parties and past classmates come up and talk to him. He might not remember their names, where they're from, or what they mean to him, but he remembers that he met them from somewhere. And usually that's enough to go on.

With her, it wasn't.

He notices it the moment she walks up to him, all those years ago. She had demanded to talk to him, and he had of course accepted. But what she didn't know is that while she was questioning him, he was desperately trying to figure out just why this stiff, intriguing, and arguably deadly women seemed so familiar.

When he learns that she's a fan, he decides that he must have seen her at some event. He settles on the plot line that they have met before, but it was brief and not totally pleasant. He decides that she was a woman he hit on at a bar and bought a drink or two, but had eventually been turned down. This is why he doesn't remember it all to well. He does have selective memory when it comes to his own self-image.

But as the case carries on and he becomes more and more determined to unravel the mystery that is Katherine Beckett, and the story he created seems more and more like a rough sketch of an idea than a feasible plot line. And because he falls for her, for the chase that she embodies almost instantly, and he cannot believe that he would give up on her so easily so many years ago.

She's maddening, frightening, challenging, and everything he enjoys. And he's determined to figure out where he remembers this beautiful, staggering, blistering woman.

The case turns into cases, which turns into a tentative partnership. He bases a character off her, which turns into a series. He falls for her, like he knew he would. She's a challenge. She doesn't bow down to him and his boyish charm and extensive bank account.

It's his second year there, following her, and he still doesn't know why she seems so familiar, but his feelings are switching from the love of the chase to simply loving her. It frightens him, so he hides himself in relationships with his exes and others who mean nothing but he wishes that they did. And he tries not to hurt when she has her own partners that are not him.

The face, with hallowed cheekbones and dynamic eyes and that small mole that is nestled almost by her hairline; a source of pure beauty and something artists have struggled to do justice for as long as man has loved. He could never forget it. Yet it seems that he has. From somewhere.

His third and fourth year with her, observing her, is pure hell. Now he is in love with her fully, pulled out all the stops. And when that damn doctor motorcycle boy is gone, he begins to entertain the thought of them together now with even more frightening clarity. It only makes him bleed more.

He tells her, when it's her that's bleeding for a change (though he would bleed for the rest of his life to never see crimson stains blossom from around her pristine clavicles). He begs and pleads and tells her that he loves her. He traces his fingers across her face and commits to memory again. He won't forget.

Though when she disappears on him, he wants to. Though the feeling of daggers stabbing him and pulling him apart only multiply ten fold when he learns that she's known all along and hasn't said anything.

That's when he truly wants to forget. He wants to never see her again. But she's everywhere; her silhouette burned into his eyelids and the smell of her hair between the pages of the book. That damn face is all he sees.

It doesn't help that she seem to notice. She acts hurt and sad when he pulls away. He wants to defy the pull she has on him. And he almost does. But then she shows up, soaking in the rain and alternating his name and apologies in an entrancing chant as she kisses him, that pulls him back again to the flame.

He thought he had seen beauty too, when she moaned his name as she clenched around him (or when she bit his finger, he wasn't choosy), but the next morning, when he wakes up to long legs and his wrinkled dress shirt and her face surrounded by a glorious mane of hair and two coffee cups, he knows that he has stared down the face of a goddess.

But he still cannot place why she seems so familiar.

They spend the next year together, though some of it in absolute (though later proven not convincing) clandestinely. He sees all ranges of emotion across her face then, and he loves it more and more each day.

He commits to memory the way her eyebrows raise to the line where her forehead meets her crown of hair on the day he asked her to marry him. That, and the soft press of her lips are the memories that keep him when she's away chasing her dream and some serious bad guys down the streets of DC.

It's in one of these periods apart, when she's still in the process of getting her stuff shipped from her New York apartment to her DC one, where he realizes where he's met her before, though he won't tell her until they're old and gray.

She's asked him to go into her storage space and locate a box to send her. It's filled with something, shoes or kitchen appliances or stacks of college mementos. He doesn't remember, not sure if the box ever makes it to DC (she comes back to New York where she belongs anyways soon enough). What he does find, is a box of books. His books.

It's a complete set. Well almost. And later, when he recounts this, she chastises him for checking to see if she has _all _his novels, but what is a guy to do. There's one book missing. A Hail of Bullets, one of his earlier ones. He decides to get it as a gift for her. Picks up a copy and signs it. Writes that this is nothing compared to the literature she's inspired him to write, though it is still pretty good. He'll give it to her as a parting gift next time they see each other.

He ends up flying down to DC with the book in hand. And when he's not interfering with her case and almost dying, he is poking around her apartment for a place to stash her gift. He decides on the drawer of her nightstand, knowing that that's the place she keeps her books she's reading.

He finds a book there, which he isn't surprised about. But what he is, is as he turns the dog-eared copy over, and is that it's a paperback version of the book he holds in his other hand. The only difference really is what he's signed on the inside cover.

_To Kate, _

_Your mother not only has wonderful taste in books, but has also raised a wonderful and articulate young woman. Best of luck in each of your future endeavors, as I am sure they will be as passionate and intriguing as you are. _

_Sincerely, _

_R. Castle _

And the book signing, all those years ago, comes back to him. And she's standing in front of him, skinny and young but still beautiful. She's just lost her mother, but he doesn't know that. He doesn't know anything about how wonderful and unique the girl standing in front of him. He doesn't know about her struggle, her strength, the way she takes her coffee. He doesn't know he'll be lucky enough to call her his wife. He doesn't know he will have three wonderful, troublesome children with her. He doesn't know how many times he will almost die for her, and how he would throw himself in from of hundreds of hails of bullets at any time if it meant she never had to feel any pain.

He sees her face so clearly now. Her young beautiful face that hasn't had the time to get the worry lines yet, but still looks perpetually sad. He sees the shaggy haircut, hair dark as night that falls unevenly across her forehead. He sees ripped jeans and a leather jacket and a boyfriend in the car that wants to leave, but of course waited for her book to get signed because who wouldn't wait for her. He sees her, nervous and stuttering slightly as she tells him that she is her and her mother's favorite author.

How could he forget her.

Then his Kate, present day Kate, who is equally stunning and exciting as her 20 year old counterpart enters her apartment and calls for him. He shoves the book between the box spring and mattress, promising himself he'll give it to her eventually, and goes to see her.

She's there, shrugging off her suit jacket and pulling her hair out of the intricate braid she put it in earlier that morning, but as soon as she sees him she's all over him. She kisses him a hundred times, and he doesn't ever want it to stop. But when she does. And she's staring at him eye to eye with that soft smile he's only ever seen when she's truly happy (coincidently also only when they're together, and later with their children, which is something he prides himself in until the day he dies) that he could spend the rest of his life staring at this face and be completely inspired.

Not to mention head over heels, lets write a cliché romantic comedy in love.

And he might not have remembered her in her 20's, when she was hard and fast and more dangerous than she is now (which he still isn't even sure how is possible) but he doesn't mind. He gets her now, with her walls down and her arms wide open.

He missed her 20's, but he gets her 30's and her 40's and all the way up to her 90's when they're old and grey and surrounded by their own clan of great grand children and memories.

And even then, her face will still be the most beautiful thing he's ever been able to wake up to each and every morning.

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_Well there it is. Nothing important really. Just an idea that came into my sleep deprived, romance filled head. Unbeta-ed as always, so I fully own all of my mistakes. Review if you liked it, review if you didn't. Review if you're still not over the last episode, because I know I'm not. Also, feel free to hit up my tumblr reality-killedus . tumblr . com (without the spaces of course) to talk to me/review/give me other ideas _

_xoxo _


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